


She

by SnowyWolff



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Agender Character, Angst, But also, F/M, Fluff, Genderfluid Character, Internalized Transphobia, Nationverse, Transphobia, but it's mostly about positivity and acceptance, mtf!romano, trans!romano, transgender character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 07:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 11,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17483738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowyWolff/pseuds/SnowyWolff
Summary: She may be the mirror of my dreamsA smile reflected in a streamShe may not be what she may seemInside her shell-Sheby Elvis Costello





	1. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a while ago, Taotao wanted me to turn this into a separate series and guess what, it finally happened. A shameless indulgence in drabbles dedicated to trans!romano, often paired with Prussia because he’s a good, caring boyfriend, who’s trying his best, but also lots of Romano’s self-exploration and self-discovery, and a lot of angst.
> 
> Note! These are out of order as I add to them. If I ever deem this series “complete” then I’ll probably reorder them chronologically.

Why is it so difficult to escape? To break free of those chains and restrictions and rules and reminders and ‘what’s wrong with yous’?

Romano stares at her reflection, hates that she has to think _his_ reflection. Not today. Honestly, not even yesterday, but she managed to make it through all right, but now she’s in her closet and the suits are giving her anxiety and she doesn’t want to be a disappointment and—

She doesn’t even realize she’s crying until Prussia enters the room, blinks at her and says hesitantly, “Lovi?”

It hurts and breaks and shatters and she slumps to the floor, Prussia looking more than just alarmed now as he drops down next to her. He asks if he can touch her and she leans into him because he’s warm and a comfort and she might just lose him with what she’s going to blurt out any moment now so she wants what little more she can get from him.

“Chiara,” she sobs. “Please, I—”

Prussia pauses minutely as he runs his fingers soothingly through her hair. “Chiara?”

She isn’t exactly sure what she expects, but she cries harder as he sighs softly and kisses her head, settling her a little more comfortably in his lap.

“All right, okay. Chiara.” He nods. “That’s cool. I’m Gilbert. Have you seen my girlfriend? She’s supposed to be here somewhere, but all I can find is this pretty nifty water fountain.”

Chiara snorts, then hiccoughs, burying her nose against his collarbone. “Thank you.”


	2. Footsteps

Prussia is too light a sleeper to not notice the footsteps outside of his door. They pace up and down, pause, scuffle a little against the carpet, then starts pacing again. He knows whose they are, knows the familiar hesitation, knows to wait for the inevitable knock.

It never comes.

He sits up, staring at the door as the footsteps retreat. He holds his breath, hopes for them to pause again, for them _to turn around_.

They don’t.

The blankets fall to the floor as he stumbles from the bed and nearly rips the door from its hinges. It bangs against the wall loud enough to probably wake the entire hotel, but Prussia can’t particularly bring himself to care.

Romano is about three steps from the elevator and jumps, staring back at Prussia.

Prussia doesn’t actually know what to say, so he opens his arms because he recognizes that look on Romano’s face. It’s the look that says, _I_ _’m really fucked up because I’m not what I’m supposed to be and so I’m really upset because I can’t_ be _who I_ need _to be_ , and Prussia hates it with a passion.

Romano is warm and smells faintly of flowers as Prussia wraps her in a hug, tugging her inside the room and setting her on the bed.

“I love you,” Prussia says, squeezing her hand and pressing a kiss to her cheek, then lips. “No matter.”


	3. Regret

She feels just a little silly in her new dress, nervously brushing her hair behind her ear, only for it to bounce back into place.

It’s her first time going out in public after coming out to Gilbert, and she wonders if he would recognize her. Oh, she really hopes she hasn’t made a mistake in telling him.

Chiara worries at her lip, but stops immediately when she tastes the lipstick. On the one hand, it’s a perfect habit-breaker. On the other, she feels she might have overdone it, and she smooths out the creases in her dress in an attempt to ease her conscious.

A tap on the shoulder and she turns, blinking at a small bouquet of red roses presented to her with that big dopey grin of his.

“I heard you’re supposed to bring roses on your first date with a girl so—” He chuckles, if a little sheepish, and she smiles as he cups her cheek.

“Thank you.”

He kisses her, then makes a face as he pulls back. “This is gonna be a real struggle, Chiara. Public kissing is gonna be way easier, sure, but damn, lipstick tastes gross.”

She laughs, wrapping him in a quick hug, almost mushing the roses between their chests.

No, she realizes, she does not regret telling him.


	4. Baking

Gilbert hums as he mixes the batter, never quite standing still, always moving. He hums as he fills another baking tray with star-shaped cookies, throws it in the oven and immediately begins to clean.

Chiara likes to watch him, to see that ease and calm as he bakes and bakes and bakes. Chiara has lost count of how many batches have already been in the oven, but there seems to be no end to them.

Swinging her legs back and forth as she sits on the table, plates of _Lebkuchen_ , _Vanillekipferl_ , _Zimsterne_ and _Linzer_ _Augen_ and whatever else Gilbert has been mindlessly baking surrounding her, she grins when he steps in between her legs, leaning down to kiss her.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulls him closer, and his hand may accidentally squish some _Linzer Augen_ as he leans on the table, but they can just give those to Austria.


	5. Transformation

She wishes it was that easy. That she could snap her fingers and transform and become who she _is_.

Instead, she has to hide her skirts and her dresses and her heels and make-up and jewelry in the closet in the room Emma always uses to stay over because Emma _understands_ but her own government does not. And it hurts to be Lovino, even if she should be used to it by now, after centuries—millenniums of being _he_.

But, then she is with Emma, who is sometimes Hugo, and they go to Daan because they don’t mind nearly as much in his country and it’s _unfair._

She wants that freedom. She wants the world to know, but she _knows_ it won’t go well. It never has. She’s still so very scared, even if there’s Feliciano buying her dresses whenever he goes anywhere and lies and tells everyone they’re his because they don’t mind nearly as much when it’s him, and there is Gilbert too, who is still so new to this, but is trying so very hard.

She knows they’re there for her, but it’s hard to feel loved when you know your own people will turn against you should they ever discover.


	6. Replenish

Prussia almost drops his plastic cup as someone presses her forehead against his shoulder blade with a heavy sigh. She can be so _silent_ sometimes.

He turns around, smiles, then falters as he touches her cheek and tilts her head up.

“You okay?” he asks, brushing her bangs behind her ear gently.

She fidgets, hands moving from the lapels of her jacket to smoothing our her dress shirt to hovering over her chest (or lack thereof) shortly before abruptly dropping them down to her side.

Prussia has been getting better at catching on though, so he gently cups her jaw and, after quickly glancing around to find them alone, whispers, “I'll give you anything you need, Chiara. We could skip the meeting if that'll make you feel better?”

She sighs again, and it's a little shaky, but she presses her forehead against his and closes her eyes. “No. You're exactly what I need.”


	7. Brother

It’s a little more scary to tell Veneziano.

They’re both still so small, and while they’re not nearly as young and innocent as their size would suggest, it doesn’t change the fact they’re still children in mind.

Romano is still terrified to fully think of himself as herself, but if there is one person who should know of her preference it should be her brother.

They’re in Constantinople, and it hasn’t been that long since Rome had died, so Macedonia—or maybe she is the Roman Empire now; people have been addressing her as such—had taken them to her capital.

Romano feels she should be ashamed, of thinking of her own issues when she should be in mourning, of her turning away from the better sex (because certainly as a man people showed her respect), of even sharing this with her brother, who should be appropriately disappointed with her, who should be disgusted, repulsed, sickened, revolted—

But Veneziano blinks, touches the tears that roll down Romano’s cheeks. “Oh. Oh, please don’t cry, Romano.” He shifts, takes Romano’s cheeks in his small hands. “Should I call you ‘sister’ then? Would that make it better?”

A sob escapes her trembling lips and she nods, unable to find her voice.

Veneziano kisses her cheeks and tugs her head down to rest on his shoulder, mumbling soothing words as he tries his best to quell her tears.

“I love you,” he says as he rubs small circles against her back. “I’ll protect you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Macedonia is Ancient Greece. I think Hima mentioned somewhere that she became the Byzantine Empire after Rome died, so I'm rolling with that


	8. Shoes

Chiara brushes her fingers through her hair, now reaching her shoulders. Even when they snag on a tangle the curls so easily devolve into, she can't stop smiling.

Gilbert clatters around behind her, tripping over the myriad of shoes she's left out in her search for the _right_ pair. He mutters something about the possibility of having too many shoes, but Chiara shakes her head, turning toward him with a hand on her hip, trying (and failing) to not be too gleeful of the way her hair sways.

She is openly gleeful when Gilbert’s eyes travel her up and down and he blushes all the way up to his ears. She reaches up and pinches them teasingly and he dips his head to kiss her.

“I guess I can forgive you,” he mumbles in between kisses as they trip toward the bed.


	9. Petteia

It’s during one of their languid afternoons basking in the sun when Romano quietly mentions something that has been on his… her mind.

Greece blinks at her, rolling unto his stomach as he scratches his head.

“I don’t know,” he says slowly, honestly. “Would you like that?”

Romano stares at the sky, pulls out tufts of grass as she thinks.

“Maybe,” she admits softly. “Just between us.”

Greece hums and Romano meets his eyes. There’s a tiny smile playing on the other’s lips and Romano returns it tentatively.

“I still won’t let you win at _Petteia_ ,” Greece says.

“You suck.” Romano rolls over to poke his side until he swats her away like a cat. “Thank you, though.”

Greece ruffles her hair fondly. “No problem at all.”


	10. Insecure

Sometimes, in the dark hours of the night, she would circle back to age-old insecurities.

She would remember her free, careless days as a Greek city, before Rome took her in. She remembered how, at some point, she had fallen out of favour with him, and she still doesn’t exactly know why. Not really.

Sometimes she’d attest it to Veneziano and his more conveniently located core. Sometimes, she’d think that somehow Rome had discovered about her affliction. How a girl was worth so much less to him, and a fake girl had to be much, much worse.

Maybe that had been it. She wasn’t only neglecting a much more favourable position in society as a male, but she somehow felt more in tune with the more heinous of the sexes. She would not, and could never be, a real woman.

It is during nights like these that Feliciano gains a sixth sense and crawls into bed with her, whispering comfort and loving praises until her body stops shaking and her breathing evens out.


	11. Upset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE! When Romano is still discovering who she is or in denial of who she is (due to the time period or other reasons), she refers to herself as a male. This does not take away from her gender identity!

Romano doesn’t often look at himself  in a mirror. Something about his reflection unsettles him.

Macedonia kneels behind him and brushes his hair, occasionally snipping some of his unruly curls away. She hums as she works, an old lullaby she used to sing to him and Greece when they were upset.

But Romano isn’t upset. Even if his eyes stray to Macedonia’s long, long hair artfully arranged before flicking back to the floor with every snip of the scissors.

He isn’t upset.

He isn’t upset and he swallows the lump in his throat because that is how not upset he is.

Macedonia puts down the scissors and runs her hand through his short, short hair. She smiles gently.

“You’re still very beautiful, little one,” she says and wraps him in a warm, comforting hug.

Romano sniffs and wonders why she never calls him handsome like she does with all the other boys. Yet it makes him inexplicably happy, so he doesn’t wonder for long.


	12. Stories

One day, Macedonia sits him down on the patio when Rome’s away for another war.

She tells him myths she’s never told him before. Stories about Dionysus, even if he’s a god children shouldn’t really concern themselves with. But the stories Macedonia tells him are about how he lived his youth as a woman despite being born male, and something within Romano resonates with that.

He fidgets as Macedonia pets his hair, and she asks if he’d like to hear more similar stories. He nods and she speaks of Siproites and Tiresias and then of Leucippus and Mestra, who became men instead.

It bothers Romano that all of them seem to be punishments and he says as much. Macedonia pauses and sighs softly.

“Perhaps, but that doesn’t mean it is,” she says, petting his hair.

And when Romano wanders through the gardens later alone, he thinks that maybe being a girl doesn’t sound so bad.


	13. Jealous

It’s petty. So stupidly petty.

Romano clenches his apron and scowls at the floor. Spain jokes about his flushed cheeks, ascribing them to embarrassment instead of unrighteous anger.

Belgium doesn’t deserve his anger. She really does look beautiful in the new dress Spain had brought from the Americas, with the ruffles and the flowers and the jewellery. She looks feminine and dainty and Romano isn’t jealous of that at all.

He isn’t angry at her, but at Spain. Because Spain suddenly decided to take Romano’s distaste for the maid dresses seriously and gave him trousers instead. A distaste he clung onto because boys shouldn’t want to be dressed like girls, with the pretty frills and the colourful flowers and the glittering jewellery.

So Romano isn’t jealous and he doesn’t miss his dresses and he definitely isn’t going to cry over the thought that he will never be a beautiful woman like Belgium later.


	14. New

Romano runs her fingers over the fine silk fabric of the dress splayed on her bed. It’s a deep green with cream details and too many frills. It’s definitely out of style, but…

Veneziano stands in the doorway, smiling as Romano turns to him.

“It’s tailored,” he says, touching Romano’s back. “I thought it’d suit you.”

Romano swallows. She hasn’t thought about being feminine since the unification, since the wars forced her to don a role of masculinity to have any weight at all.

“Help me?” she asks and Veneziano’s smile intensifies.

They take their time, or, well, Veneziano gives Romano the space she needs to shed her clothes. He helps her in the various layers, lacing her up before telling her to close her eyes as he steers her to a mirror.

Veneziano clatters around, and then he’s behind her, clasping a heavy necklace around her neck. Rings follow onto her fingers and the long earrings tickle her neck.

When Romano’s allowed to look, she feels rather silly as Veneziano fixes her dress here and there. It hugs her body just right though, brings out curves she really doesn’t have, and she rubs her eyes to stave off the tears.

Veneziano runs his hand through her hair. “You could grow it out if you’d like? I’ll make sure no one runs their mouth.”

Romano shakes her head. “No. This is enough. Thank you.”

Her brother turns her face and searches her eyes earnestly. “Anytime, _stella_.”


	15. Tight-Laced

Romano tries to remember to breathe, even if Belgium seems set on wringing all the air from her lungs.

“I didn’t know—” Romano gasps as Belgium tugs on the laces again— “women weren’t supposed to breathe.”

Belgium giggles and slackens her hold a little. “Talking, moving, just plain existing. Evil, cunning women.” She hooks a finger underneath the silk. “But you really are supposed to breathe in these. I forget your figure is a little less giving.”

Romano hums as Belgium continues much more gently. She loses track of the amount of petticoats Belgium ties around her waist (so thin and shapely now!), but then the overpetticoat is on and she’s excitedly lead to the huge standing mirror.

As she leaves Romano to turn this and that way, marvelling over her new feminine figure, Belgium plucks around until she finds the hair accessories she wants and forces Romano to sit behind her dresser.

And when her hair is coiled and cuffed, Belgium applies some makeup to smooth out Romano’s sharp jawline and bring out everything else to distract from that. A thin, gemstone necklace rests against her collarbones and she’s once more stood in front of the mirror, Belgium hovering behind her as Romano stares at herself.

She turns to Belgium, and she takes a step forward, smiling encouragingly.

“You’re so beautiful,” she says and bumps her hip against Romano’s. “Let’s go to the theatre tonight, as Chiara and Hugo.”


	16. Secret

Romano doesn’t actually realize what she’s revealed to Belgium until she’s roughly taken by the wrist to a much more secluded section of Spain’s huge residence.

She panics and squeezes her eyes shut in fear of punishment, but instead of a backhanded slap, Belgium cups her cheek gently, telling her to open her eyes.

Belgium is knelt in front of her, dress spilling over the dusty floor. Romano knows she must look spooked because Belgium does that strange motherly thing she sometimes does when she knows something is wrong and emanates this calm, soothing comfort.

“You’re not in trouble,” she says, “but you have to be more careful. If the humans, or worse, Spain, hear about this—”

“I know!” Romano tugs her hands free, wrapping them around herself defensively. “I’ve known to be careful for centuries!”

Belgium bites her lips. “And this? Have you known you’re a,” she hesitates, clearly unsure of how to phrase this properly. “That you’re a woman for a long time too?”

Romano eyes her warily, but Belgium doesn’t look as if she means any harm. If anything she seems almost hopeful, like a quiet anticipation toward a subject she hasn’t dared touch before.

“No. It took some thinking. A lot of thinking.” Romano pauses, stares intently at her feet. “I think I’m still thinking.”

“Can I think with you?” Belgium asks softly, and now she’s the one bashful, fiddling with her long sleeves as she adds, “I don’t think I’ve been doing it enough.”

And Romano knows how that feels, and remembers Macedonia’s carefully told stories, so she closes the distance between them, wraps her in as good a hug she can manage and whispers, “That’d be nice.”

Belgium squeezes her tightly. “Our secret.”


	17. Early

When Chiara wakes to an empty bed that definitely hadn’t been empty when she had fallen asleep, she has a short moment of panic.

What if he had changed his mind? What if he thought she’s disgusting after all? What if he’s trudging around Europe, spilling her most-guarded secret left and right.

She takes a while to just breathe, trying to rationalize her panic. Gilbert isn’t like that, and he definitely wouldn’t do the latter—even if he wasn’t quite all right with her.

Her panic doesn’t entirely vanish until she enters the kitchen where Gilbert is brewing coffee, humming something she doesn’t recognize.

He glances at where she lingers in the entryway, hugging her bathrobe to herself, and he smiles, opening his arms to her.

She murmurs an apology as he bangs against the counter after she flings herself into his arms, perhaps clinging a little too desperately to him.

His fingers card through her hair soothingly, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Coffee?” he asks and she hums, only giving him the space to turn around before wrapping her arms around his stomach and hugging his back.

The chuckle that rumbles through him is as comforting as the quick squeeze he gives her hand.

“I love you,” Chiara says into the fabric of his shirt.

“Love you too, _S_ _üße_ ,”Gilbert answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for all I had written beforehand. Honestly, I'll take one-word prompts for this fic if you'd like to send any in :DD


	18. Oldest Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @anon: I have absolutely no plan whatsoever; I just write whatever I feel like so I'm really grateful toward any request!! Chiara deserves all the hugs so let's get going eh.

Somehow it always comes as a surprise to people that she is friends with Denmark, but they go way back to the first century, when the Roman Empire decided he wanted to forge further north.

But now it’s the seventeenth century and Denmark doesn’t even really have to be in Spain, but here he is anyway.

Romano sits on the roof, away from where Spain can scold him, away from the responsibilities of being a young man. Here, up high and alone, he can breathe and be she, just for a little while.

Until she hears the unmistakable sound of shingles shifting and Denmark pulls himself up, all windswept hair and dishevelled clothing.

He grins at her, shirt untucked, missing most of its fancy layers in favour of functionality.

“Look who’s finally grown an inch or two,” he teases.

She punches his arm, though she can’t quite stop the smile spreading on her lips. “Shut up. I’m finally no longer an eternal eight-year-old; you can’t shit on my parade.”

“Fair, fair.” Denmark laughs and falls back against the tiles. “Spain’s a nice country.”

“The land or the Nation?”

“Temperature.” Denmark glances at her. “You been doing okay here?”

Romano shrugs, picking at her trousers. “It’s not bad.”

“Doesn’t sound good either.” When Romano doesn’t reply, Denmark sits back up, presses his hand against her arm. “Romano,” he pauses. “Lovino, can we speak openly?”

“If you call me Chiara, we may.” It had been a mumble, nothing more than a murmur, but she means it. Denmark is her oldest friend and if there is anyone in the world she wants to know her name, it’s him.

Denmark is very, very quiet as Romano curls further into herself.

“Does Spain know?”

“Fuck, no.”

He tugs on her arm and unwinds her, pulls her into a tight hug. “But you’re okay?”

She nods against his jawline. “Yes. As good as can be.”

Denmark rubs her back. She can smell the Baltic Sea, sweat and blood and war, but he’s here now and he’s warm.

After a long comfortable silence, he asks, “Does anyone know?”

“The Greek states used to know before…” Romano presses her lips in a thin line. “Veneziano. Belgium.”

Denmark shifts a little, hugging her a little tighter still. “Is there anyone else you could trust here?”

Romano knows why he’s asking. She’s isolated in Spain, far away from everyone else now that Netherlands had up and left and taken Belgium with him. She could maybe try to talk to Mexico sometime, if Spain would let her. He had been stupidly paranoid of Romano running off in rebellion and independence.

She shakes her head and he hums.

“Well, then. Time to start writing me letters again.”

Romano scoffs. “You think Spain’ll let me?”

“What in the world could you gain from me? I’m neck-deep in conflict with Sweden and probably will be for a while. I’m all against independence from the dependencies.” He chuckles, though she knows the conflict cuts him much, much deeper.

“Just keep them appropriate so Spain won’t throw a fit when he reads them.”

Denmark scratches the back of her neck teasingly as he leans back. “I’ll figure something out. Some sort of secret code made up from Old Germanic, Old Norse, Old Greek and maybe we could throw in some Latin for fun.”

She laughs. “Please spare me.”

He winks and they steer into the silly conversation they haven’t had in forever, laughing and joking and being distinctly human in topic. There is no need to drag up wars and politics when it's just the two of them.

Later, when Spain is giving her a long look that borders on suspicion, Denmark distracts him and calls for all his attention, allowing Romano to slip off to the privacy of her bedroom.

Denmark later joins her and kisses her forehead when they lie in bed, whispering about secrets and long lost stories. And even though Denmark will have to sneak out before the sun rises the next morning, he pets her hair until she falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catch me with that denmano friendship
> 
> Also thank you everyone for being so absolutely kind and sweet in the comments ;A; This love for Chiara is making my heart melt y'all please keep it coming


	19. Dazzling

Gilbert doesn’t entirely know what to expect. Chiara has invited him to an old mansion in the South Italian countryside and told him to bring his best suit fit for a ball. So, maybe he does know what to _expect_ , but he’s not much closer to figuring out why the Italies are holding a ball in the twenty-first century.

It might have taken him a little too long to find his old tuxedo, which Ludwig had immediately dismissed. His little brother might not be the most fashionable dresser, but even he knows when things are distinctly old-fashioned and in need of replacement and Gilbert’s pre-WWII tuxedo is most definitely on that list.

Yet, there had been too little time to get properly fitted for a new suit, so Ludwig grudgingly allowed Gilbert to go with the promise of seeing a tailor as soon as he returned.

The mansion is stately and well-kept, beautifully old-fashioned yet warm and welcoming as Gilbert stands in the main hall. Feliciano meets him there and steers him to the ballroom with a sly smile before dashing off again to take Gilbert’s luggage upstairs.

Turning the corner, glancing into a room, Gilbert freezes. He has to remind himself how to breathe, to breathe at all, as his eyes fall on the lone person standing in front of the windows.

The short green dress that Chiara is wearing shows off her long, shapely legs. Her long hair reaches past her shoulders now and Gilbert can’t stop himself from sneaking toward her and tugging gently on one of the painstakingly curled strands.

She startles, then laughs as Gilbert kisses her, wrapping her in a tight hug after two months of not being able to see her.

“You look so wonderful today, Chiara,” he says.

Grinning, Chiara stands on the tips of her toes, hands warm on his shoulders, and whispers, “Wait until you see me tonight.”

***

That night she descends the staircase in old silks and glittering gemstones.

Gilbert definitely feels inadequate in his old-ass tuxedo, but when her smile is one of the brightest he has had the pleasure of seeing, he doesn’t dwell on it any longer.

He offers his hand when she reaches the final steps and bows, pressing a short kiss to her gloved knuckles.

“You’re so beautiful tonight, Chiara,” he says, smiling as she wraps her arms around his neck, and he lifts her off the final steps, making her skirts flow.

She giggles against his neck as he sets her on the floor. Brushing her fingers through his hair, pushing it back, she kisses him.

“You look dashing yourself, young man,” she teases as she picks at the fabric of his jacket, “if terribly old-fashioned.”

“Comes from the lady dressed in layers upon layers of petticoats.”

Chiara pinches his cheek and they make silly faces at one another. They don’t stop until Feliciano clears his throat behind them, and even then they continue when he turns his back to them.

There is noise coming from outside and the chatter from the first guests arriving fills the foyer. Feliciano goes to greet them as Chiara turns to fix Gilbert’s slightly skewed bow tie. He knows it’s to stave off her nerves, so he allows her to fiddle with his clothes for a minute before he catches her wrists with a smile.

“It’ll be fine, _S_ _üße_ ,” he says. He reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear, lingering there, brushing his fingers over her cheek. “You know I’m here for you, and Feli too. And Hugo will be, as will Francis. And Daan, Mikkel, Feliks, Toris. You’re not alone.”

Chiara sighs, closes her eyes for a moment, long lashes fluttering against her cheeks, and leans into his touch. “I know.” She takes his hand and laces their fingers together. “Thank you. I love you.”

Gilbert grins and squeezes her hand, quickly lifting it to his lips to give it a small kiss. “Anytime, Chiara. Love you, too.”


	20. Nails

Chiara has been giving him glances.

They are seated on the soft couch in her house by Messina, partially watching TV, partially just dozing. Chiara is curled up against the armrest, feet tucked beside her, all in all taking up very little space. Gilbert, on the other hand, is sprawled on his back and occasionally pokes her legs with his toes.

She’s looking now, and Gilbert pokes her again.

“You’re staring.”

“Am not.”

“Looking then. Stealing glances.” He grins, lifted his head so she could see him waggle his eyebrows. “I know I’m irresistible, but c’mon, entertain me. What’s up?”

Chiara brushes a hand through her hair. She has had to cut it short again, which still looks really nice, but Gilbert knows she dislikes it.

“I just…” She picks at her skirt. “I’m bored.”

“You can change the channel if you want.”

She rolls her eyes. “No. I.” She hesitates, bites her lips, and Gilbert sits up so he can look at her properly. “Can I paint your nails?”

“My nails?”

A familiar red flush colours her cheeks and she mumbles something disdainful under her breath, Gilbert knows, but then she says louder, “Yes. Can I?”

“Do I get to pick the colour?”

“Sure.”

“Then absolutely.”

So fifteen minutes later, after vigorously cleaning up his nails with things Gilbert had no idea existed, Chiara has his fingers firmly in her grasp, painting them a deep Prussian blue with military precision. Gilbert could appreciate that.

“You know,” he says as she switches to his middle finger, “I do wonder why you have this colour. It's not really _your_ colour, is it?”

She blushes, squeezes his hand a little harshly. “Oh, hush.”

Gilbert grins, shifting a little so he can bend down and press a kiss to her hair. “Well, I say it isn't _your_ colour, but I'd lend it to you.”

Chiara snorts and glances up quickly to give him a look. “You own colours now, hm?”

“It's called _Prussian_ blue, _Liebling_.”

Chiara finishes his hand, screwing the top back onto the bottle as Gilbert admires her work. Placing a hand on his cheek and turning his face toward her, she kisses him, and he can't really do anything but hover his hands in the air, away from her so the nail polish won’t be ruined.

He must be blushing too now because Chiara’s lips are trailing down his jaw and along his neck, her fingers moving to brush back the hair by his ears. She leans back momentarily before brushing her lips against his ear and whispering, “I think this is much more your colour, _Tesoro_.”

Gilbert laughs and she kisses him on the lips once more.

“So, how long does it take to dry?” Gilbert says as he slumps against the backrest, holding up his hand against the light.

“A while.” And she laughs as he groans, waving his hands in an attempt to speed up the matter.


	21. Consolidation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consistency? In my use of country/human names? Absolutely not

They're chatting in the break room. Romano looks at ease, for once, in her suit, her hands gesturing wildly as she stipulates exactly what's wrong with having meetings in England. Prussia might not be entirely paying attention to what she's saying, caught in the way her lips move and her eyes light up, but he hums along nonetheless.

She's in the middle of a particularly invested rant on something that happened in Roman times near Hadrian’s Wall when Spain bounds in, slinging an arm around her shoulders, immediately ending her words as she breathes sharply.

“Lovi,” he sings. “You're being so stiff today again. Should Boss take you out tonight?”

Romano elbows him and scoffs. “No. Get lost.”

Prussia tries to read her carefully guarded expression as Spain backs up with a bark of laughter. Not upset, yet anyway, but he can see her trying to regain her composure by brushing her fingers through her hair.

Spain turns to Prussia instead. “Can I talk with you?”

Romano narrows her eyes. Prussia glances from her to Spain, but then she waves her hand and wanders off to where the Netherlands and Mexico are smoking. Spain watches her, then watches Prussia watch her.

“You two have gotten really close, huh?”

Prussia blinks. “I mean, we've been dating for a while now.”

Spain purses his lips. “Yeah, but I've never seen Lovino this… attached before.” He sighs. “Sometimes, it feels like I can't even recognize him.”

Not too strange, really, because Romano is scared out of her mind of Spain finding out the truth. She's been evading him too, which Prussia plans on talking about with her, but he has to sit down and chat with Spain before first. Another day, preferably with France.

“Well,” and Prussia hates himself a little as he says, “he's been busy—”

“Yes, but he's always around you or Emma or Daan or Eliot and I've even seen him with Toris and Feliks yesterday.” Spain sounds pitiful now. “What's wrong with hanging out with _me_?”

Prussia shrugs. It's not like he can go spill Romano’s beans. It's not his place.

“Listen, I'll talk to him about it. See what's up,” he says. He claps Spain’s shoulder. “Don't worry too much, man. It'll smooth out.”

Spain glances at Romano again, a little lost.

Soon, Prussia thinks, and takes out his phone to text France.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOY look at me having a narrative line. It’s just a short one, but I feel it’s nice to keep you guys on your toes ;p


	22. Talk I

They sit in the Parisian sun on Francis’ rather pitiful balcony, sipping wine and snacking on cheese. Antonio’s been lamenting on his economy while Francis and Gilbert have been sharing meaningful glances for the better part of the hour, unsure of how to broach the subject with Antonio.

Francis drums his fingers against his leg, takes a sip of wine, says, “Toño, could I pick your brain for a moment?”

Antonio tilts his head and glances back at Gilbert, then nods at Francis. “Anytime.”

Francis hums, allows his eyes to roam away from their little corner, out into the streets. Softly, he begins, “You're quite an open person. Your government certainly is, now. More than can be said for a lot of others.”

“Yes,” Antonio says slowly when Francis doesn't continue.

Francis extinguishes his cigarette as he thinks of his angle. “I have been thinking a lot, about the state of our world, of what place we hold, how little of government affairs we are involved with nowadays. It leaves us… more open to explore ourselves, has it not?”

“I guess?”

“Some of us have been doing it for centuries, I know, but I have always been so busy, so involved with wars and revolutions and more wars that I may have neglected doing so myself. You too, yes?”

Antonio leans back into his chair, eyes a little distant. “Where are you going with this, Francis?”

Francis doesn't answer for a long time and then he gives Gilbert another meaningful look. It's lost on Antonio, who glances between them.

“Toni,” Gilbert says, a little exasperated, a little harshly. “Do you think gender is a fixed thing?”

Antonio opens his mouth, closes it again. He scratches his head as he thinks. “No,” he begins slowly, “I don't really think it is.” He looks at Francis. “Is that… do you…” He gestures vaguely, not knowing how to phrase his question.

“Sometimes,” Francis says, “I’d rather not be a man. Today is fine, but perhaps, if I were to ask you someday to think of me as ‘she’ and call me Gabrielle, would you?”

“Ah.” Antonio reaches out and places his hand on Francis’ arm. “Of course. You're my friend.”

Francis covers his hand with his free one and smiles. “Thank you.”

Gilbert claps Antonio’s shoulder and grins. “Cool. The modern age has done you good, man.”

Antonio blinks at him. Gilbert recognizes the expression as mildly suspicious, if only because some loose dots in his mind suddenly had meaning together.

“Gilbert,” Antonio begins, but Gilbert holds up a hand.

He lights another cigarette. “Not mine, Toni.”

Antonio doesn't quite settle, but he doesn't continue his train of thought either. He simply stares across the Parisian rooftops.


	23. We Should Talk More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little update to tie in with @polands-scrunchies' [transtalia week](https://polands-scrunchies.tumblr.com/post/183865604817/follower-milestone-event-transtalia-prompt-week) ✌️

One day, Gilbert tells her she should have lunch with Lithuania sometime. In fact, he skips right past the “should” and “sometime” and has gone straight to “next week Thursday because I invited Toris over and you'll be in Germany anyway so you might as well.”

So there she is in the middle of Potsdam, dropped off by Gilbert—and she doesn't quite want to go inside the restaurant, but Gilbert had said it would be really good for her to get to know Toris better and had given her some sort of meaningful glance before kicking her out of the car so she doesn't quite have a choice.

Toris is seated somewhere in the back, and a waiter leads her to him. She smiles at him quickly, then order a dry red as she sits down, glancing at Toris when he orders the same.

“So,” he begins and it's almost amused. “Gilbert tells me we should talk more.”

“Gilbert says a lot of things,” Chiara sighs.

Toris laughs. “That, he does.”

“Um.” Chiara picks at her napkin. “I really didn't think you and Gilbert got along. What with your, uh, history.”

Toris drums his fingers against the table thoughtfully. “I suppose. I wouldn't call us the bestest of buds, but he's tolerable. Especially now after his dissolution.”

She knows what's left unsaid, what Gilbert never really does touch upon, the scars still so prominent against his skin, so she leaves it at that with a nod.

Their wine arrives by the time the silence has turned awkward, but Chiara doesn't know what to say. Toris seems to be lost in thought anyway, eyeing the window.

“You know,” he begins softly, “there's only two reasons I can think of as to why he thinks you and I should ‘talk more’.” He pauses, carefully weighing his words. “The first one is because he genuinely thinks we could be friends, and I'm not saying we can't be, but right now you look like you'd rather be anywhere else.”

Chiara purses her lips. “I'm not one for forced interaction.”

He smiles. “Neither am I.” He glances at the table. “The second is, well, gender reasons.”

Chiara chokes on her wine. “Oh, um, I, why?”

“It is the second then?” he asks first, eyes intense and critical.

She ducks her head. “I guess.”

Toris nods. “You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, obviously.”

She honestly doesn't know. She hardly knows Toris. It would be weird and disconcerting to just blurt it out to practically a stranger. After all, Toris is still a Nation and this is her weakness to be exploited. She knows he wouldn’t, but—

But Gilbert seems to trust Toris well enough, despite centuries of war and hatred, and clearly anticipates something coming from this, one way or another.

She sighs. “Maybe,” she begins and picks up the menu. “Once we get to know each other a little better.”

Toris taps her arm and raises his glass. “I'll toast to that.”

She snorts and clinks their glasses together. “Sure.”


	24. Midnight Call

She wakes up crying, gasping for breath as the dream smooths into reality.

Clutching at her chest, she kicks off the covers because she _can't breathe_.

She's home alone, which is when the memories bubble to the surface and taint her dreams with insecurities, accusations and hatred.

Her phone tells her it's 4 a.m., too late for anyone to still be awake yet too soon for anyone to have risen early. It takes a couple of tries to unlock it, then she taps the contact list with trembling fingers.

He had said it was okay, but… but is it really?

Her heart’s still racing, but it does give her the push she needs.

The phone rings twice before she loses her nerve and hangs up again, dropping the phone in her lap and burying her face in her hands with a sob.

She startles when the phone starts buzzing.

“Chiara?” Gilbert’s voice is soft and sleep-muddled, but he’s there and—

“I'm sorry,” she whispers.

“Don’t be.” There’s the soft rustling of sheets in the background. “What's up?”

She takes a deep breath, digging her fingers in her pyjama pants. “Bad dreams.”

“Do you want to talk about them?”

“Not right now.”

“Want me to distract you?”

She smiles. “Yes.”

So he does, talking about his day, his new high score in a game, the new couple that had moved into the apartment below his, how he's thinking about adopting a dog because he misses the energy of Ludwig’s three.

The sun has begun to rise by the time Gilbert runs out of things to say and begins whispering sappy things, like how much he loves her and how they should go on a date soon because he wants to show her off.

It's so unlike him, the soft voice, the kindness, the show of affection and love. It's reserved just for her in moments like these. She misses his fingers threading through her hair and his legs tangling with hers, but this is the next best thing.

“Do you have work today?” he asks.

Chiara stretches, having picked up the covers a little earlier and snuggling back under. “Thankfully not.”

Gilbert is quiet for a moment, then says, “If you have nothing to do, let's game together.”

She snorts. “Seriously?”

“Yeah! We could continue our farm on Stardew Valley—”

“Oh my God.”

“—do more fishing. I've finally gotten the hang of it, I think—”

“Gilbert.”

“—and you could go into the mines because we probably need more stones anyway—”

“ _Gilbert_.”

“—oh, and we should totally get married. Like, it's a pain to make that recipe for the rings, but—what?”

She chortles. “Sometimes I cannot believe you used to be one of Europe’s central powers. You're such a nerd.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” He sounds offended.

“Nothing at all.” She lowers her voice, speaking fondly, “I really quite love you like this.”

He clears his throat, and the way he lowers his voice is definitely not just fondness. “How much?”

“S _ooooo_ much.”

“ _Babe_.”

“Let me have breakfast and then we can call and play, okay?”

“Oh, I love _playing_.” She can just hear him waggle his eyebrows suggestively.

Rolling her eyes, she shifts to the edge of the bed. “Call you later, numbnuts.”

She cuts the call through his half-assed comment about his numbnuts and runs a hand through her hair. She's tired, sure, but the nightmare has faded to the recess of her mind. She'll talk about it the next time they're actually together, as something about telling it over the phone feels wrong, but for now she's feeling good and warm and a little fuzzy.

It’s a good feeling.


	25. Talk II

“Lovino.”

She startles as Antonio takes her arm and steers her into the nearest empty office. He releases her there, in the middle of the room, and begins to pace in front of the door.

His countenance is unusually serious, unusually tense. At first she thinks it might have been the meeting because it had been shoving their economic welfare into their faces, but then he stops, turns to her, looks her up and down, and she feels trapped.

“Antonio,” she says and takes a step back.

He says, “I'm sorry, I just… Please, Lovino, there is something _different_ about you and I don't know _what_ , but I'd like to know because we're _friends_ , aren't we?”

Chiara takes another step back. Antonio doesn't move; he just looks lost.

“You,” she says, “you wouldn't…”

Antonio takes a step toward her, stops when she takes another back, bumping against the desk as she does.

“Lovino.” He steps to the side, gives her access to the door. “Please. I don't—I'm not sure what it _is_ , but you shouldn't be scared.”

“But you do”—she feels out of breath and slightly dizzy—“know. You must, otherwise you wouldn't… you wouldn't.”

Antonio just looks at her. When she says nothing, he sighs. “I'm not… I'm not going to force it from you. I just”—he sighs again, deep and forlorn—“wanted you to know that nothing would change. I won't be… whatever you think I'll be.”

He walks to the door and, with his hand on the handle, he adds, “I'm really sorry for cornering you. I'll send Feli this way.”

The door closes and Chiara slides to the floor, back pressed against the desk. She presses the palms of her hands against her eyes to stave off the tears. There is no need to cry, not really. If Antonio really knows, or has some sort of inkling toward it, and he means everything he's just said, then there is nothing to fear. Yet she can't stop trembling, not even when Feliciano slips inside and kneels beside her, combing his fingers through her hair as he mumbles soothing words.


	26. Overcooked

Gilbert has been trying to think of games to play with Chiara.

She doesn't like war games, though she's scarily good at Wolfenstein, and she hates anything that requires thinking too much about the buttons on a controller. Through trial and error, Gilbert discovers that the perfect games to play with Chiara are games like Portal, where she can’t shoot him in the back when she is bored, or Stardew Valley, in which she is genuinely invested and enjoys tremendously.

He knows what games are better to play with Chiara, and competitive games are a fifty-fifty (more like a seventy-thirty—he hasn’t had a lot of success) shot, but he likes to try anyway.

Chiara gives him a sceptical glance as he starts the game on the PS4, handing her the second controller with a grin.

“You’ll love it,” he chirps.

She hums, in that way he’s come to lovingly call “Gilbert-is-probably-wrong-but-I’ll-indulge-him-because-I-love-him”.

“No, really.” Gilbert mashes through the menu until they’re in the level selection and he steers the little van to a level. “There’s a cuss button and everything.”

“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so sooner?” Chiara rolls her eyes and pinches his arm, though she leans into him as he presses a kiss against her cheek.

As it turns out, Gilbert isn’t wrong. Completely. Chiara is into it, perhaps a little too much.

“Get the soup, Gilbert! The _soup_!”

“I got it! Where the hell are the plates?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

Most of their yelling devolves into groans of despair as the timer dings, signalling the end of the level.

“Two stars?” Chiara drops the controller in her lap, brushing back her hair. “ _Two_? What else could we have done? Is there a ‘suck up to the customers’ button?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What about a ‘spit in their soup’ button?”

Gilbert laughs, stretching his arms over his head and dropping his controller on the couch behind him. “If only.”

Chiara slumps against his chest and blows a raspberry against his neck, wrapping her arms around him as he squirms. “Want to cook dinner together tonight?”

“If you don’t shout ‘ _onions_ ’ at me, yeah sure.”

She laughs and buries her nose further into his hoodie. “No promises.”

Chuckling, Gilbert teasingly runs his fingers along her side, just short of tickling. There is a soft, warning huff that makes him reconsider, so he wraps her in a tight hug instead, leaning forward just slightly to nuzzle her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever played Overcooked? Because I have,,,,, it’s a lot of yelling that can be summarized as “THE SOUP’S BURNING” and “WHY ARE THERE NO PLATES WHERE ARE THE PLATES” and *INCOHERENT SHOUTING OF VEGETABLES*


	27. Self Love

The moment the front door closes behind her, Chiara throws her briefcase down the hall and her Oxfords by the shoe rack. Shedding her clothes along the way, she slowly ambles upstairs. Tie in the key bowl, suit jacket crumpled on the carpet, trousers kicked down the landing, dress shirt slipping past her shoulders as she steps into her bedroom.

She takes out a bra, slides in the breast forms, and taps at her lips as she stares into her closet. Eventually, she settles on a long flowering dress, soft pinks and greens, and slips it on, sighing as it swishes around her calves.

It’s too late to bother with makeup, but takes a moment to preen her hair in front of the mirror anyway.

She might have short hair, a sharp, somewhat square jaw, broad shoulders and no real curves to speak of. They might not be ideal feminine features, but they’re _her_ features. Features don’t make a man or woman, she has to remind herself, even if it’s sometimes the hardest thing to remember when she’s being suffocated by another suit.

She breathes in deeply, closes her eyes as she does, and tries to breathe out her anxieties.

It’s all right. To love herself, every single part of it, body, mind and soul. It’s all hers, all part of her. And it’s _okay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Id still love to receive prompts for this because im having a bit of a writing slump. There’s still a lot of characters I want to have chiara interact with, but I just don’t have anything beyond that,,,,,


	28. Chiara

He’s studying his scriptures when the name jumps out at him. It entices, it calls, it beckons.

And he wants.

Self-consciously he glances behind himself, though he's all alone in the confines of his room, seated behind the tall desk, propped up on pillows to hunch over ancient manuscripts.

Tracing the letters with his fingers, he sinks into memories of long ago. Of a time where Macedonia, the Roman Empire now, but so, so small, almost gone, swallowed by the Ottoman Empire, had sat him down and told him of all the people the gods had cursed and gifted another gender. But—

But he wants it too, doesn't he?

Lovino is not a name that suits him at all. He hates the women that pinch his cheek and sing it in loving coos. He hates the men that address him, grovellingly— _Lovino, my Lord—_ as if he's as tall and buff and _manly_ as Spain.

He tastes this name on his lips and tongue, as crisp and bright as its meaning, and wonders if it's a name that could fit him…

No, perhaps not him.

He sounds the words out in his mind, like an old song translated continuously over the years, familiar and warm and welcome. 

_Girl, la-dy._

_She, wo-man._

_Chi-a-ra._

She likes that a lot more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asdfghkhfh because I am booboo the fool, I forgot to mention that two lovely and wonderful persons have written fics along the same trend at this one. [Lotus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17986226/chapters/42486314) has one on ftm Prussia while [Taotao](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18394973/chapters/43563632) has one for genderfluid France and they're both so fucking valid and you should definitely go check them out ;A; they legit make me cry all the damn time


	29. Friede

Gilbert is giving her that _smile_. The smile that he smiles when he has a surprise but isn’t entirely sure whether she’ll like it or not.

“What did you do?” she asks, appropriately suspicious after the last time he’s pulled a face like that, still finding glitter in places where glitter shouldn’t have been able to get into.

The smile twitches.

She has only just arrived at his house on the outskirts of Potsdam, standing in the hallway, suitcase discarded, coat halfway off, and in an overall pesky mood after having been on the road for so long.

He darts forward and helps her take off her coat, then takes her hands in his, pressing a kiss to one of her rings with a hopeful glint.

“Remember how I complained about feeling lonely here?” he begins and she instantly softens, knowing how much of his pride he’s pushing aside just to say that to her without faltering.

“Yes?”

“And remember how I said I wanted to get a puppy?”

Chiara stares at him, wide-eyed. “No!”

He grins now, excitedly leading her to the living room. There, on a bed still way too large, lies a small black puppy, deeply asleep. She recognizes the breed immediately and she glances at him, then back at the puppy, then back at the man currently holding the same energy and excitement as one.

“ _Cane Corso_ ,” she whispers.

Gilbert wraps his arms around her waist, swaying her back and forth. “Docile, easy to train, very good temperament. She’s such a good pup, too. Strongest of her litter.”

She kisses him, ruffling his hair fondly. “What’s her name?”

He looks more sheepish now. “You’re going to laugh.”

“Oh, no.” She’s already smiling.

“Friede is a good name, right?”

Chiara snorts. “You are so incredibly sentimental.”

“Chiara,” Gilbert whines.

“It's cute,” she concedes, kissing his cheek. “I love her.”

“Me too.” He smiles at the dog fondly. “She passed out after running circles around the coffee table. Just stopped in her tracks and fell over, snoring. She didn't even notice me carrying her to her bed.”

Chiara laughs as he demonstrates it with hand movements, then even more as he gives her a sly look and hooks his arms behind her legs, lifting her up easily. Carrying her to the bedroom, he lays her down as if she's made of glass, and sometimes she hates it but right now she loves it, and Gilbert kisses her, leaning over her as her hair splays around her.

“Should we be doing this while Friede sleeps?” she asks as Gilbert unbuttons her shirt, running his fingers along her sides.

He glances behind him at the door furtively. Then shrugs and begins to mouth marks against her stomach, saying, “We have time. If she didn't wake up when I jostled her around the room earlier, she won't wake up from us having some fun now.”

Chiara laughs, sighing as he lingers on one of the marks. She runs her hand through his hair, gently guiding him back up, even though it's slow process as he continues to press kisses against her skin, reaching underneath to unhook her bra and toss it somewhere behind him.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs as he nips up her neck, smiling as they kiss languidly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Il Cane Corso, also known as the Italian Mastiff, are often used as companion or guard dogs in Southern Italy. Of course, Gil isn’t going to have her tail docked or ears cropped because screw that. They have such big sweet heads with floppy ears im love them so much ;A;


	30. Talk III

Gilbert could have punched in Antonio’s teeth. He really could have. Friendship be damned. Sometimes, the idiot really fucking deserves it. The only reason Gilbert hadn't then was because Antonio had looked absolutely miserable for the remainder of the weekend and Chiara had asked him not to.

Now, Gilbert sits with Chiara at a restaurant somewhere on the east coast of Spain, and he still kind of wants to, but Chiara has her fingers laid on his arm and is being really fidgety in her seat so he focuses on that instead.

“Chiara, you need to breathe at some point,” he says, touching her cheek with his free hand.

The restaurant around them buzzes with activity. They have been squished into the corner somewhere. It is slightly more private, though no one would overhear a group speaking Italian anyway with children screaming somewhere on the other side of the restaurant.

She glances at him. “I'm breathing,” she says, shifts in her chair a little, and eyes the windows.

“Are you sure you want to do it here?” _Or at all_ , is left hanging unsaid.

Chiara nods. “Yes. Not being alone, it helps, a little.” She smiles, albeit a little shaky. “You're here. That helps a lot.”

“Anything, I told you before,” he says and squeezes her cheek teasingly.

Her smile grows a little more confident and she leans over the small table to kiss him. When she sits back down, she fiddles with her blouse, something loose and unassuming, until Gilbert takes her hand in his.

“You look wonderful,” he assures. “Now, no more fiddling. You're going to breathe, and Antonio isn't going to be an ass or I really will punch him, and it will be fine.”

Chiara nods and her fingers tighten around his arm and his hand and he lets her wring her stress out that way. She wheezes when Antonio ducks inside and Gilbert notices her need to hide away momentarily, so he says, “Why don't you prepare in the bathroom and you can come out whenever you feel ready to do this, or text me if you don't want to, but at least it'll be at your own pace.”

She squeezes his hand again, expression flitting to extremely relieved, and she ducks out of sight.

Gilbert waits until she's well out of table sight before he turns to the front and signals Antonio over, just as the other notices him.

“Hey,” Antonio says and sits in the chair next to Gilbert. “Is Lovi…” he trails off, frowns, as if even he can taste the name no longer fits.

“Toni, I need you to promise me something,” Gilbert says, grabs onto his arm to truly catch Antonio's attention.

Antonio stares at him. Very slowly, he nods, sensing the severity, the threat, behind the words.

“Promise me not to make a big deal out of this. This is not ours, so let's not treat it as if we have any liberty to do so.” Gilbert’s fingers are digging into Antonio’s skin, but the other takes no notice.

When Antonio speaks, it's with quiet severity, a heaviness in promises not often made. “I promise. All I want is for this… this barrier between us to be gone.”

Gilbert glares into those green eyes, finds nothing but honesty, and releases him with a nod of his own. “All right. I believe you.”

It's then that Chiara reappears, all but diving back in her seat and fussing with her hair. She glances at Gilbert, gauges his expression, then looks at Antonio.

He tries for a smile. “Hi.”

She takes a deep breath, digs her fingers into the table. “Antonio, I… I would really appreciate it if you called me Chiara”—her eyes flit to his very quickly before she barrels on—“in private or with others that know and maybe think of me as a… as a woman. I'd really, really appreciate it if you would.”

Antonio sits very still, slowly processing the whirlwind of words she just sent his way. Gilbert has reached across the table and unhinged one hand from the hardwood, rubbing her knuckles with his thumb soothingly.

“Chiara,” Antonio echoes, very softly, and she all but jumps from her skin as he pats her other hand. He ignores the Look Gilbert sends his way and says, “Okay. Thank you for telling me.” He glances around. “We should call a waiter; I'm starving.”

The waiter that had been making his way to their table quickly walks to a different one because Chiara bursts into tears, startling both men. Gilbert cramps himself in the space available between the table and the wall to whisper to her from a low vantage point while Antonio almost causes the loss of two wine glasses as he leans over the table to apologize.

“No,” she says and waves their worries away. “No, I'm not… upset. I'm just—” she hiccoughs and repeats, “I'm not upset.”

“Are you sure?” Gilbert asks and receives a reproving tug on his ear as answer.

Antonio meanwhile has pressed just about all the napkins in her free hand and she has to reach up and squeeze his cheeks to stop his continuous apologies and should-have-done-differentlys.

“I'm just really relieved,” she says and wipes at her eyes as Antonio slowly sinks back into his seat. “Really, really relieved. It's—I hadn't realized how… how glad I am—how… how lucky I am, to have”—she gestures—“this.”

Gilbert presses a kiss against her knuckles and nudges her over to the other chair so he can sit next to her and rub her thigh comfortingly.

Antonio wrings his hands for a moment before he really turns in his seat, flags down the nearest waiter and orders the Spanish red he knows Chiara loves and a plate of paella. Gilbert raises his eyebrows at him, so Antonio just says, “Comfort food,” by way of explanation.

Chiara snorts. “I need that.” She places her hand on top of Gilbert’s underneath the table and continues, bolstered, “Though, I’d much prefer homemade. Even if it's made by an idiot.”

Antonio leans his elbow onto the table and grins. “Ah, Lo— _Chiara_ , are you offering?”

She kicks him. “You better hope this is good or, so help me, it's going down your pants.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaan the conclusion of that little bit of narrative xD for now, anyway.  
> spain is learning to be a more open person because i feel he would be someone to struggle with it a lot in the, ah, empirical days. but people grow (sometimes) and he's trying.  
> thank you guys so much for sticking around so far!!! i love this little series to death, even if ive gotten slower at updating. as always, requests on prompts for this are open!!!


	31. Neither

Chiara is tremendously confused.

For a start, she’s having tea with Ludwig in the gardens of one of his country homes, this one near Lübeck, the gentle ocean breeze rustling the hedge. Gilbert’s taken the dogs, all except for little Blackie who’s curled underneath Chiara’s chair, to the beach.

Ludwig clears his throat.

“Chiara, um,” he begins, then falters. He stares at the hydrangeas with a troubled expression.

Chiara feels severely unprepared by whatever has to be on Ludwig’s mind. She’s not the best at conversation regardless and often doesn't know what to say or how to help, but what she can do is listen and offer support.

So, she sighs, places her teacup on the table and smooths out her skirt. “Yes, Ludwig?”

“Perhaps I’m being silly,” he says after a long pause, “but there has been something on my mind for a while now. I just… I thought that you could, um, point me in the right direction. Maybe?”

“Oh.” Chiara brushes back her hair. “Well, you could always give it a shot, I suppose.”

“Right.” Ludwig nods and continues to say nothing.

Chiara reclines in her chair, recognizing the same furrowed eyebrows Gilbert sports whenever he tries to organize his thoughts into something that makes sense.

“Well, I was just wondering, considering your, ah, disposition toward gender,” Ludwig trails off, hesitant.

“Yes?” Chiara prompts, hoping to throw him a bone. Ludwig is as awkward as, if not infinitely more awkward than, Gilbert, so she waits patiently for him to blurt out his thoughts, even if they might be blunt.

“It's just that. I, um.” Ludwig groans and rubs his eyes, keeping them covered as he mumbles, “I don't really feel like a man, I guess. But not a woman either. Just, kind of, neither.”

Chiara blinks. Of all things, it's a little unexpected.

“Oh,” she says.

“Oh?” Ludwig echoes, a little forlornly.

“I mean,” Chiara quickly catches herself and scoots toward the edge of her chair to pat Ludwig’s knee, “it's okay. To feel like that. And to be confused.” She thinks quickly. “While I'm not particularly knowledgeable about, well, the nonbinary side of things, I know it definitely exists.”

They looks at her. “I _really_ don't like to be confused about it.”

“Well, duh.” Chiara rolls her eyes. “But it's still okay to be. Most of my young years were spent in confusion. It doesn't erase your feelings.”

Ludwig looks dubious, so Chiara scoots her chair closer until their knees bump. “Ludwig, you're definitely not alone in this either. You should talk with Berwald about this; they're of a similar mind and probably know a lot more.”

“Oh.” Ludwig sags in their chair.

Chiara smiles and pats their cheek in a rare affectionate gesture. “There. Feeling better?”

They nod, then hesitate. “What would Gilbert say?”

“You haven't told him yet?” After Ludwig shakes their head, Chiara pinches their arm. “Idiot. That man would give you the world if he could. He damn well tried to anyway. Tell him when he comes back and if he, by any chance, which I doubt, raises a fuss, I'll kick his ass for you.”

Ludwig releases a shaky breath and says, utterly sincere, “Thank you.”

And Chiara, equally sincere, replies, “Don't let anyone tell you who you are, Ludwig. No one has the right to.”

Later, when Gilbert finally returns with three exhausted dogs, and Friede collapses on top of Chiara’s feet as Gilbert drags a chair over next to her, Ludwig quickly leaves to the kitchen to take a jug of lemonade from the fridge (and to collect their nerves; Chiara recognizes the signs).

Gilbert sighs as she runs her fingers through his hair before cupping his jaw fondly.

“You should speak with Ludwig,” Chiara says after Gilbert steals a quick kiss.

Gilbert turns toward the backdoor, immediately worried. “What happened?”

Chiara shrugs. “Nothing. But you should talk. Or well, listen, I suppose.”

Gilbert tries to read her eyes, irises darting between her and the door until Chiara leans forward to brush their noses together, smiling. He relaxes a little, fingers curling around her hand as he rests his forehead against hers shortly.

When Ludwig returns, Chiara takes the lemonade from them and watches from behind their back as Ludwig stutters out their feelings once more, scuffing their feet on the tiles.

“ _Oh_ ,” Gilbert says. “God, you had me worried for a moment.” He claps Ludwig’s shoulder before pulling them into a firm hug. “That's cool. Is Ludwig still fine as a name or do you want to be called something else?”

Ludwig overcomes their surprise at Gilbert’s easy acceptance quickly enough and holds onto him, resting their head on Gilbert’s shoulder. “No, Ludwig’s fine. And just between us, for now. I, uh—” They squeeze Gilbert a little more tightly.

“Yeah. I get you.” Gilbert rubs Ludwig’s back. “Is that what's been on your mind the past months?”

Ludwig nods and Gilbert ruffles their hair fondly.

They hug until Ludwig begins to draw back, slowly, and Gilbert takes a moment to read their face, but grins when all he finds is a hesitant, but relieved smile.

Gilbert unceremoniously flops back into his chair, accepting the glass Chiara offers him. She hands one to Ludwig as well and clinks her own against theirs with a wink.

 _The world,_ she mouths.

And to her embarrassment, Ludwig leans closer and whispers, “And you the stars.”

“What?” Gilbert asks curiously.

“You're a fool,” Chiara simply says. “But we love you.”

Gilbert frowns. “I feel I should be saying that to you guys.”

“Don't worry,” Ludwig says. “We know you do.”

Glancing between them for a moment, Gilbert almost reluctantly reclines in his chair. “And don't you forget it,” he threatens nonthreateningly.

Chiara takes his hand and presses a kiss against his knuckles. “Never.”

Gilbert flicks her nose, then points at Ludwig as they snicker. “Shush, you. I swear when you bring someone home I'll be _insufferable_.”

Ludwig holds up their hands in surrender. “Duly noted.”

Chiara scoots her chair that much closer to Gilbert’s and rests her head on his shoulder, feeling Friede once more collapse on her feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, watch me throw in all my gender headcanons in this fic like I just don’t give a damn
> 
> (I'm also going to pretend German will have a gender neutral pronoun in the future (i mean they kinda do but it's still not really) because this is my AU and I damn well say so. Germanic languages Really need to step up their game (yes, I'm also looking at you Dutch let me be nonbinary in peace _please_ )).


	32. Morning Walk

It’s very early morning, where the sun is still low in the sky and the summer heat lies in wait for the midday hours.

Chiara likes to walk in those hours, either alone or with others, along the beach, to feel the sand between her toes and the breeze rustle her hair. It makes her feel alive.

Gabrielle does not share her sentiment. Walking along the beach is all dandy and sunshine, sure, but not at six in the morning. At six in the morning, Gabrielle would really rather still be in bed, asleep, unconscious and unaware.

Yet, when Chiara had roused her not so long ago, she couldn't help feel infected by the Italian’s cheerful mood.

And she has to admit, Chiara hadn't been wrong about the beauty of a world still blearily rubbing its eyes.

She sits down in the sand, dress spilling around her, and watches Chiara step into the calm water. It warms Gabrielle’s heart to see her so carefree now, her long hair flowing behind her like a flag. To see how far Chiara has come after that moment during the Napoleonic Wars, where both had spilled their hearts out to each other.

Gabrielle is so proud to be able to call Chiara her friend. That despite everything, they can trust and support each other.

Chiara turns toward her then, as if reading her mind, and says, “Thank you for coming.”

“To beautiful Italy? Always, _Ch_ _érie_.”

Chiara rolls her eyes. “Yes, the beaches of Normandy must look truly bleak in comparison.”

“It's a different kind of beauty.” Gabrielle shrugs. “You must come visit sometime soon.”

“Sure.” Chiara sits herself down next to Gabrielle and grins teasingly. “As fellow countries of love, we must share.”

“I certainly hope ‘because we're friends’ suffices as well.”

Chiara laughs. “Yes, naturally.” She glances around, then leans closer, whispering, rather conspiratorial, “But since our boyfriends can be quite, ah, _lost_ within the eloquent meanings of romance, it would be nice to do so.”

Gabrielle hides a snort behind her hand. “My, you're quite right. At least you're lucky Gilbert has had the benefit of hanging around yours truly and, while a bit blunt, Antonio. Arthur thinks that cross stitching together on a Sunday afternoon accounts to being romantic.”

“Arthur is quite hopeless,” Chiara sniffs. “Well, I do suppose he's had John Donne.”

“Oh, please spare me.” Gabrielle dramatically lies down in the sand, throwing her arm over her eyes for added effect. “Arthur quotes that man too often.”

“Oh, you like it.”

She does, but Arthur definitely doesn't have to hear a tangible confirmation. He already knows anyway, because he smiles that smile now when he quotes languid lines.

Chiara rolls onto her stomach and murmurs, “I bet you two get it on while he quotes it too.”

Gabrielle tosses a fistful of sand at Chiara blindly. “Hush, you. As if I don't hear plenty about what you and Gilbert get up to.”

Chuckling her blush away, Chiara shyly draws figures in the sand. “It's nice, huh. To love someone and be loved like that.”

Gabrielle hums. Love had always been something so distinctly humane, she couldn't help but fall in love with the idea of it, of romance and intimacy, but to experience it herself… It is truly a wonderful feeling.

“Though, I like this too,” Chiara adds thoughtfully.

“This?”

“Love in friendship.” She smiles. “I like that the world is open enough for us to be friends now. Publicly.”

Gabrielle returns it. “Yes. Me too.”

Later, when they amble back toward Chiara’s house, Gabrielle agrees. There truly is something rejuvenating about early morning walks, but perhaps only in the company of certain people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you guys still around for this??? Is there something you'd like to see more of: prumano, sibling time, some more historical things, more drabbles from a different POV??? let me know :D
> 
> Comments are always loved <3333

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [He](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17986226) by [Lotus_Dumplings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lotus_Dumplings/pseuds/Lotus_Dumplings)
  * [He/She](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18394973) by [Dewy_Peach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dewy_Peach/pseuds/Dewy_Peach)




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